Blood an’ kindness-that’s what’s wanted—­’specially blood!  The ‘istory o’ me an’ my family’ll show yer that.  Tyke my bruver Fred —­crushed by burycrats.  Tyke Muvver ‘erself.  Talk o’ the wrongs o’ the people!  I tell yer the foundytions is rotten. [He empties the bottle into his mother’s mug] Daon’t mind the mud at the bottom, old lydy—­it’s all strengthenin’!  You tell the Press, Muvver.  She can talk abaht the pawst.

Press. [Taking up his note-book, and becoming, again his professional self] Yes, Mrs. Lemmy?  “Age and Youth—­Past and Present—­”

Mrs. L. Were yu talkin’ about Fred? [The port has warmed her veins, the colour in her eyes and cheeks has deepened] My son Fred was always a gude boy—­never did nothin’ before ’e married.  I can see Fred [She bends forward a little in her chair, looking straight before her] acomin’ in wi’ a pheasant ’e’d found—­terrible ’e was at findin’ pheasants.  When father died, an’ yu was cumin’, Bob, Fred ’e said to me:  “Don’t yu never cry, Mother, I’ll look after ‘ee.”  An’ so ’e did, till ‘e married that day six months an’ take to the drink in sower.  ’E wasn’t never ‘the same boy again—­not Fred. An’ now ’e’s in That.  I can see poor Fred——­

     [She slowly wipes a tear out of the corner of an eye with the
     back of her finger.]

Press. [Puzzled] In—­That?

Lemmy. [Sotto voce] Come orf it!  Prison!  ’S wot she calls it.

Mrs. L. [Cheerful] They say life’s a vale o’ sorrows.  Well, so ‘tes, but don’ du to let yureself thenk so.

Press.  And so you came to London, Mrs. Lemmy?

Mrs. L. Same year as father died.  With the four o’ them—­that’s my son Fred, an’ my son Jim, an’ my son Tom, an’ Alice.  Bob there, ’e was born in London—­an’ a praaper time I ’ad of et.

Press. [Writing] “Her heroic struggles with poverty——­”

Mrs. L. Worked in a laundry, I ded, at fifteen shellin’s a week, an’ brought ’em all up on et till Alice ‘ad the gallopin’ consumption.  I can see poor Alice wi’ the little red spots is ‘er cheeks—–­an’ I not knowin’ wot to du wi’ ‘her—­but I always kept up their buryin’ money.  Funerals is very dear; Mr. Lemmy was six pound, ten.

Press.  “High price of Mr. Lemmy.”

Mrs. L. I’ve a-got the money for when my time come; never touch et, no matter ‘ow things are.  Better a little goin’ short here below, an’ enter the kingdom of ’eaven independent: 

Press. [Writing] “Death before dishonour—­heroine of the slums. 
Dickens—­Betty Higden.”

Mrs. L. No, sir.  Mary Lemmy.  I’ve seen a-many die, I ‘ave; an’ not one grievin’.  I often says to meself:  [With a little laugh] “Me dear, when yu go, yu go ‘appy.  Don’ yu never fret about that,” I says.  An’ so I will; I’ll go ’appy.

     [She stays quite still a moment, and behind her Lemmy draws one
     finger across his face.]